Price of Admission
by yadon
Summary: A day of community service that Simon Blackquill never asked for turns into something else he never asked for: the opportunity to bond with Fool Bright. [Pre-relationship Blackbright, two-shot for user candysquad]
1. Chapter 1

Despite his reputation, Simon Blackquill had never harbored any intentions of harming, let alone murdering, another soul.

This, however, was __before__ he'd been subjected to the torture he'd been made to bear over the past few hours: cleaning up the aftermath of an all-night horror movie marathon.

Ill-bred reprobates who plastered any available surface with every sort of candy at their disposal deserved to be personally punished, starting but not ending with having their teeth individually plucked from their mouths by Taka's talons, that they may never enjoy their sweets again.

Simon scrubbed the plastic baggie filled with ice into the blue patch of gum on the seat in front of him. This was final section, this back row of the balcony he was locked into.

After some minutes of vigorous sawing and digging with the fifth plastic knife of the day, most of the gum had flaked away, and the decades-old seat was left looking – well, much like it had before. Still ugly and musty, but in a different way.

Simon stood and stepped down to the row below him, peering over to survey the main auditorium. He couldn't see Fool Bright, but then, half the auditorium was beneath the balcony. But he also couldn't hear the drone of the vacuum or the sputtering of the carpet deep-cleaner. So...

Was this it? Was it over, done with? Now he could return to prison, throw himself down onto his stiff cot with nothing to show for his work except the lingering scent of orange cleaner that had long since saturated his skin. Oh, of course, and a sense of having "done the right thing" or whatever balderdash Fool Bright had jabbered on about, for this half-rate version of community service.

Simon's hand tightened around his knife, and a thought descended upon him.

This balcony was small, private. Secluded. And not in the same way his cell was. He could sit comfortably if he so wished, or move about. Or even - his sights locked on the fire extinguisher encased on the wall opposite him - polish skills that had dulled, the time and means with which to hone them rendered inaccessible.

A deep breath and a few seconds contemplation later, he began his assault.

In a series of finely executed movements, Simon crossed, spun along the stretch of the aisle. His makeshift sword was wielded flawlessly with each step, a perfect combination of defense and attack as his final footfall brought him down in front of the fire extinguisher.

"Hyah!" With an expert slash through where its belly would have been, Simon earned the title of victor. For this battle, at least.

"Excellent form, Sir!"

Simon whirled around, raising his knife back up against this new, unforeseen opponent. He searched Fool Bright's expression for anything other than sincerity, but could not find it.

"What...?! Why are you...?!" A rare occurrence, Simon's reply was barely coherent, too scrambled by the embarrassment burning his face. Unable to sheath his knife, he maintained his defensive stance, lest Fool Bright seek to close in on him and challenge what words came next. "I was merely practicing for when I kill you and make my escape."

Fool Bright laughed, a laugh that bounced around the whole of the compact theatre. A shield against Simon, in its own right. "Oh, well, you wouldn't be able to kill me on an empty stomach. Come on, let's go down to the lobby and pick up some snacks."

"Snacks? We needn't snacks from the lobby. Why not stop somewhere on the way back to the prison?"

It felt odd ordering Fool Bright around today, mostly because it was almost as if it wasn't Fool Bright he was addressing at all. This Fool Bright was not the one always so sharply put together in his uniform, as if he were torn directly from a catalog. No, he wore weathered jeans instead of crisply-pressed white slacks, and those impractical brown loafers were replaced by cherry-red athletic sneakers, although Simon doubted there were any socks lining them either.

"The movie starts in a half-hour. We finished just in time." Fool Bright glanced about the balcony, his smile growing. "You did a great job!"

"That's not what I asked. I care not of the __quality__ of my work nor when the movie begins. I've no desire to watch a movie..." More acerbically, he added, "Especially with __you__."

At last, Fool Bright's smile straightened, replaced with a determination. He took a step towards Simon, reaching to grab him by the arm. "Come __on__ , Sir!"

Simon dodged and took another step backwards, knife still brandished. Now close-up, Simon could see Fool Bright's navy zip-up hoodie bore the LAPD's badge on the upper left chest, a screenprint complete with **B. Fulbright** across its center.

Well, perhaps he'd assumed too much. You could take the Fool Bright out of the precinct but you couldn't take the precinct out of the Fool Bright.

"We are not staying for a movie." Simon shortened his stance, dropping the knife partway but still holding it in front of him. "The owners wouldn't allow it anyway, and-"

"Yes they will! I told you when we arrived, I know them from coming here so much. As long as you're supervised, they've no issue with you staying here; they __are__ thankful for us being able to help them on such short notice."

For as expressive as Fool Bright always was, Simon had never really noted that his eyes were much the same, because they were so often obscured by those bloody aviators. He'd left them in the cruiser, and it was because of that Simon was being currently subjected to such a wide-eyed, expectant stare.

Of course, it wasn't as if he paid __attention__ to Fool Bright's characteristics. But it was hard not to when they were so outstandingly different than what he was used to.

"I __don't__ want to watch a movie, Fool Bright!" How incapable of listening could one empty-headed blighter possibly be?!

"Okay! That's all well and good, Sir, but __I'm__ staying to watch the movie, so you have to, too. You don't __have__ to watch it; you could always try to rest a bit if you'd like."

With a frustrated growl, Simon lunged at Fool Bright, knife gripped solidly in underhand fashion. A swift, angled uppercut, and the knife met its target, right under Fool Bright's ribcage.

And snapped in half.

The knife couldn't even pierce the fabric of the seat cushions. There was no chance it would penetrate Fool Bright's clothing and his sturdy, muscled torso.

Simon had known that. What he also knew now, with Fool Bright's incredulous blinking silence, was that he was in unspeakably deep trouble.

His mouth hung open, explanation caught in his throat and then being forced out as a " _ _umfh__!" as he was trapped in Fool Bright's arms. The two of them hurtled against the wall, Simon's shoulder slamming against the case of the fire extinguisher.

Simon struggled in vain, grunts of effort with the occasional whimper. He abhorred this unbidden spike of fear, driven into him much like __he__ was the one who'd been stabbed. This was utterly unacceptable. Fool Bright should be the one trembling, afraid. Not him. "Unhand me! It is __your__ fault for lowering your defenses, and – nnyaggh! Dammit!"

Slicing pain circled Simon's wrists, the sleek modern handcuffs Fool Bright always carried with him should justice need to capture anyone who dare challenge it. The iron manacles he typically was chained in were resting in the cruiser, a freedom granted to him that morning solely for efficiency's sake.

Then there was the horrible, unwelcome knot tightening in his stomach, at the contact of their bodies. His back pressed to Fool Bright's chest as Fool Bright's hands frisked over the waistband of prison-issue slacks. Where Simon might have thought to store a back-up knife.

"You wait here." Satisfied with his search, he spun Simon to face him, and none-too-lightly pushed him into the closest seat. "I'll go get our snacks."

Simon refused to show any shame at the reckless immaturity he'd displayed, staring Fool Bright straight in the eye. "Fine then. I don't like too much butter on -"

"You don't get to pick." Fool Bright cut him off with a terseness that should have surprised Simon, but only unsettled him.

After gathering up the cleaning supplies, Fool Bright made a rapid exit from the balcony. No vow to return quickly, or instruction for Simon to behave himself. Almost as if he didn't know Simon at all, that they were just two strangers who happened to both be in this theatre today.

For as much as Simon constantly wished for Fool Bright to cease his ramblings about justice or most everything else, it wasn't near as fulfilling as he'd envisioned it to be.

* * *

All Simon could do was wait in silence, accompanied solely by the far-off shuffling and murmurs of the incoming patrons. He tried to adjust his hands so his wrists were more comfortable, but nothing eased the raw sting inflicted by how abruptly and thoughtlessly the cuffs had been secured.

He knew Fool Bright hadn't __meant__ to to be physically aggressive with him – and truthfully, he hadn't been, certainly no more than Simon was used to being handled. His wound was inevitable collateral damage, nothing Fool Bright intended. And what had he expected? For Fool Bright to just stand there and laugh it off, like he did nearly everything else?

To be honest, most days that was __precisely__ what Simon expected from Fool Bright. He was no less than an automaton at times, chirping about justice and conducting himself however the officers' handbook outlined he do so. Simon would not have been surprised if, beneath that hoodie of his, there was some type of wind-up key that kept him whirring along and then he was stored away until the next morning, when he was wound up again for another day of pursuing justice – and irritating Simon.

But today was not one of those days. Fool Bright had been acting strangely, even for him, the entire morning. It was asking quite a lot for him to accept that Bobby Fulbright actually had emotions that weren't tied directly to this insipid commitment to justice, but that was all Simon could deduce.

Of course, he certainly did not __care__ if Fool Bright had some sort of pressing issue to cause such a shift in his disposition. He was curious insomuch as it was in his innate nature to notice problems when they arose, and solve them just as ably.

Why either of them were here was a different story altogether – or not exactly, since Fool Bright hadn't supplied him with anything resembling an explanation. There was no reasoning behind why he'd been roused at daybreak, and not forty-five minutes later been shoved off with an assortment of cleaning supplies and hasty instructions of how he was to complete the chore set out before him.

Simon didn't believe for a second that this assignment of "community service", as Fool Bright had adamantly told the young warden who made the rounds on Sunday mornings, was legitimate. And when he'd pressed Fool Bright for more thorough information, all he'd been provided with was a dearth of trifling falderal.

 _ _Oh__ , how Fool Bright had gone on and on about this theatre. How it was over eighty years old, a staple in its community, and a place Fool Bright himself frequented. How they screened everything from B-movies to foreign gems, to marathons of various actors, directors or themes. How he'd even gone to the horror movie marathon the night prior, but left after two films because, of course, he had realized what a disaster the place would be in the morning and he had to be up early to ensure he arrived on time to help clean it!

"Fool Bright!" Simon finally interrupted when he couldn't bear another second of this twaddle. "This all reminds me very much of when I met a taxidermist in the prison cafeteria several months ago – apparently he never was notified you can not practice on live specimens, human at that. Anyway, do you know what I told him after he blathered on for a good fifteen minutes about his former occupation?"

"No, Sir, what did-"

Simon's eyes narrowed as he hunched forward to snarl, "Stuff it."

* * *

Fool Bright returned with a massive bucket of popcorn and two soft drinks. Simon perked up, eyeing the popcorn that was promptly set out of his reach, steadied on the seat on Fool Bright's opposite side.

"That's for me. But I got you these, Sir." Fool Bright placed one of the sodas in the armrest cupholder, then pulled a small yellow carton out of his hoodie's pouch pocket and handed it to Simon.

Dots. Simon didn't know that these were even still being manufactured. They were naught but multi-colored globs of sugar, their whole novelty being in how they were all adhered in exact rows on a long sheet of waxpaper.

"Dammit," he grumbled, trying to tear open the box with such limited use of his hands, and eventually succeeding. He could hear the infernal crunching of Fool Bright eating popcorn, and refused to glance over, to gain indication of how entertaining his struggle may be.

The first dot refused to stick to his fingertip, and fell into the the crevice between the seat and the armrest. "Dammit!" Simon repeated. "How in the world am I supposed to eat these!"

"You'll figure it out." Fool Bright slurped on his soda. "You're very clever, Sir!"

Simon growled out a few choice curses and proceeded to peel off a few dots successfully (and drop quite a few more). He didn't like them terribly much, but he wasn't about to show any signs of surrender.

Ahead of them, a few patrons had scattered into the balcony area. But from what Simon could see, nearly everyone was sitting in the main auditorium. He approximated perhaps fifty, and there were likely just as many beneath the balcony, out of his sightline. Fool Bright hadn't been exaggerating when he'd mentioned this place was popular.

"What movie is airing, anyway?" Simon asked as he took to biting the dots straight off their sheet. "You said they screen old films, at their own discretion, correct?"

"Yup! Today they're showing __One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest__. It's from the seventies, and won a whole bunch of awards."

It sounded familiar to Simon, the title. Intriguing, as well. But he couldn't place it beyond that. "I've not seen it."

"It's pretty good. I had to read the book and watch the movie back in high school, and I remember liking it, at least a lot more than most of the stuff we were assigned. I think you'll like it too, Sir."

High school? Well, yes, Fool Bright would have some form of education. But it was such a peculiar thought, Fool Bright with a life outside of the police force, a life __before__ the police force. A life, in general. Simon often forgot such a thing existed, for anyone, considering how much he himself lacked.

"And what leads you to such unfounded assumptions? Who are you to presume what I would and would not enjoy, when it comes to varying media? Just because the title includes the name of a bird does not automatically -"

"It takes place in a mental institution. It deals a lot with... well, psychology, in a sense. Therapy. Those things you're interested in."

"Hmph." Simon chewed off the last pink dot, folding the sheet that he might save the rest for when the movie began. "Be that as it may, I still don't understand why you think it imperative that __I__ watch it, with you. This does nothing for my well-being; for my rehabilitation, as you label it. The only thing I can fathom is that you've, sadly, no other option. No one else who wished to accompany you this morning either to perform such a thankless task, or to waste two hours beside you in this derelict theatre. So you dragged me into it."

There was a cold silence – unpleasant and almost causing Simon to regret the phrasing he'd used, implying that Fool Bright, in all his feckless good-naturedness, was as off-putting to others as he was to Simon.

He had to be, correct? A creeping unease spread over Simon at the thought that Fool Bright's demeanor might actually appeal to others who __weren't__ his fellow officers. Why, for how purposefully cruel his remark had been, did he feel a twisted sort of gratitude that Fool Bright __had__ selected his company to keep?

When Fool Bright did speak, his voice was toneless and matter-of-fact and for Fool Bright, just __off.__ Like he was reading from a script, hiding what he really meant. "You're giving yourself an awful lot of credit, Sir."

"What in blazes is that supposed to mean? You have been nothing if not inexplicably vague with me all day, Fool Bright. Though my intelligence is vastly superior to yours, that does not mean I am game to decipher all these riddles you create by your inability to articulate your motivations."

"I never once told you this has anything to do with your rehabilitation." Again, a pause, just long enough for Simon to pick up the disconnect filtering through. "I told the warden that, to get you here, yeah, but not __you__."

"Then __why__ , Fool Bright? Why bring me here, if it's not meant to benefit me in any sense?!"

The theatre lights dimmed as Simon finished his question. The last thing he saw before being pitched into darkness was Fool Bright's stern, almost _ _offended__ stare.

Then, his answer, low and firm and sticking itself to Simon like one of those accursed Dots.

"Not everything's about you, Sir."

* * *

Loathe as Simon was to admit it, Fool Bright was correct when he'd predicted Simon would like the movie. Although, while the subject matter hardly was anything truly likable, it was incredibly fascinating to Simon, the glimpse into the daily life of a mental institution some sixty years ago.

The portrayals of the various patients touched something within Simon. All of them, while clearly disturbed in one way or another, were in their own ways sympathetic, or at least relatable in their many drawbacks. They were distinguishably __human__ , even with all the sentiments from the staff inferring that they were not, at least not without the assistance the staff believed they were administering.

Simon had to wonder, was this what Fool Bright saw? Not just in him, but in all the inmates. That there was a separation between them because of their respective labels. It was most certainly how the wardens, how those who'd handled Simon previously had viewed him.

He watched as the lead character of Randle McMurphy strove to teach the deaf and dumb Native American man known simply as Chief to play the game of basketball. The orderlies and even other patients seemed perplexed by this – this bald ignorance but also, in a way, kindness. Up until now, it'd been made apparent that everyone else saw Mac as crazy – but did they mean he was unstable, or crazy like a __kitsune__? In a way that he was almost too smart for his – or anyone else's – own good.

Much like Simon himself often wondered about Fool Bright.

Simon flicked a side-long glance at Fool Bright, who was sipping on his soda with a thin smile framing the straw.

Well, it mattered not. Let Fool Bright view him however he wished, and he would do the same in return. In the end, it wouldn't make any difference.

* * *

About ninety minutes through the movie, McMurphy was involved in an altercation with a number of the orderlies. The following scene stirred a sense of dread in Simon the moment McMurphy had conductant smeared upon his temples.

His head dipped, but he could still hear scathing buzz of the ECT device, and the screams of pain plugged back by the mouthguard that had been shoved in Mac's mouth. So he wouldn't __bite his tongue off__.

"Sir...?" came Fool Bright's concerned whisper.

"I'm fine." Simon dug out the box of Dots from where he'd placed them between his thighs, and set to eating the remaining pieces. The Dots, now half-melted, were gritty, almost sickeningly so. But Simon pried them off, one after the other, for nothing but mindless activity as he tried to shake free the image he'd witnessed.

Fool Bright's breath was hot on his ear, and Simon wouldn't have believed Fool Bright could speak so softly. "Would you like a drink?"

In front of him appeared the soda Fool Bright had purchased, which Simon had forgotten about. He took it with both shaking hands, and drank in a long sip. The carbonation was soothing – not much, but at least the crisp citrus taste washed away the mix of nausea and sugary residue coating his mouth.

"I'm sorry, Sir. I forgot about that scene." Fool Bright's hushed apology came along with his hand gently pulling the soda out of Simon's grip.

"It's just a movie," Simon murmured in response, settling back into the seat and peeking up to watch as McMurphy tried to bribe the overnight orderly into welcoming two prostitutes to the institution.

Except, he knew that it was still a very real punishment used in the prison. Not often, primarily with the inmates who were unruly to the point that solitary and work detail weren't enough to curb their outbursts.

Like Simon in his first full year on death row, after elbowing a warden off him hard enough to break his nose. For what reason, Simon couldn't even remember at this juncture. He needn't any provocation back then – just the whole prospect of still being alive when Cykes-sama was not was enough to launch him into a violent rage.

He didn't fear death at this point, and even welcomed the daily brutalities he may face in prison, but the idea that he could just be zapped with a bolt of electricity – reset, tinkered with, like one of Aura's toys – terrified him. Made him think too long and hard about how Athena thought she could fix her mother in much the same way.

Then it dawned on him: he'd never spoken a word about this to Fool Bright. His detective must have done his own research, questioning. But...?

Simon flattened the empty Dots box with his palms, and in doing so quashed his meandering memories, as well as the new questions that had blossomed. The movie was still unfolding before him, and he would watch it.

The movie. That's all it was. Just a movie.


	2. Chapter 2

Five minutes away from the theatre, Simon saw no point in withholding the conclusion he'd reached.

"Mac reminded me very much of you, Fool Bright."

A few heavy seconds and no acknowledgement from Fool Bright.

"I said-"

"I heard you, Sir." Fool Bright interrupted, though rightfully tentative. "I... I'm not sure how you see that."

The carousing, swearing, hotshot of a protagonist did not bear much, if any, likeness to the man sitting in front of him. If anything, Randle McMurphy and Bobby Fulbright were even more different than Simon himself was from Fool Bright. It was not a comparison one would think to make, which Simon understood completely.

"I'm not speaking of your respective personalities. More, it was the approach in which McMurphy used towards the other men. He was very... compassionate. Or no, not compassionate, exactly but... he treated those men as human beings, and expected nothing in return from them except a mutual..." he paused, tongue buzzing as the exact word hovered a feather's width out of reach.

"Decency." Fool Bright offered, not a suggestion but definitive.

"Yes. Yes, precisely. He did not seek to 'cure' them, to 'fix' them, in any sense. Which does not mean he did not want to __help__ them, but he saw 'help' as wholly different concept than Ratched, and the doctors."

"And you're saying I'm like that?"

"I... I am saying I see similarities, yes."

"...Well then, thank you, Sir!"

Simon's expression darkened at such plain naivete. "I never said it was a good thing, Fool Bright. I was simply sharing my observations with you. What good did it do him, his attempts to throw a wrench into the well-oiled machine of the institution? To uphold his own personal definition of justice, as it were. He pays for it with his life."

It's an ending Simon won't soon forget: after attacking Nurse Ratched, Randle McMurphy is lobotomized and rendered little more than a vegetable. Chief, who grew to be Mac's closest friend at the institution, smothers Mac in an act of what could've been perceived as mercy. As they had once conspired to do together, Chief then breaks through a window and escapes into a freedom he would have never thought existed before his friendship with Mac.

"I'm pretty sure that if Mac had known his death led to the Chief's freedom, he would have considered it a sacrifice he was willing to make." Fool Bright spoke firmly, enough that Simon knew he'd held this opinion before this moment, before Simon addressed it.

"Please. He entered the institution for his own selfish reasons – too weak and arrogant to endure a prison sentence, under the assumption the stay at the institution would be a cakewalk." Simon shifted about in the seat, staring down at his bound wrists. "He might have come off as noble to others, but I don't believe he would have __willingly__ sacrificed himself for such a meaningless venture."

"What...? You mean, giving his friend a chance to basically live again? That's not meaningless in the least! All those men there, Mac risked a lot for them, even if he didn't die for them. You know, with the fishing trip, and the Christmas party..." Several instances in the movie, McMurphy essentially breaks out of the institution in order to provide the other men with all sorts of entertaining diversions – a furthering of his drive to remind them that they were not just patients with varying diagnoses, but individuals deserving of the sort of cheap thrills one might find in the "real world".

Like this afternoon Fool Bright had squandered away with Simon, to try and keep him tethered to what very little humanity he had remaining. Or, so he'd told the warden.

"He was planning to __escape__ , Fool Bright – to leave those men. Surely you are me not asking to believe that there are people out there – __real__ people – who would value the lives of others above their own?" Acidity burned in his words as the sting of the memory resurfaced. His arms dropping away from Athena's limp, blood-stained body, a final promise that she'd never remember and he couldn't forget. "You really are a __fool__ , Fool Bright."

"...It's not really a matter of if you __believe__ it or not, Sir. People once believed the earth was flat, now, and that didn't make it so! There __are__ people out there, though, like Mac – or, at least how I saw him. Remember, he tried to get them to come with him, but it was their choice and he respected that. He didn't give up on them, like you're implying. And if you really think he did, then he and I aren't -"

"Did that loyalty save Billy Bibbit?"

Fool Bright didn't answer, and Simon would have been shocked if anyone would have had an immediate response to the question he posed.

Young, stuttering, socially-inept __suicidal__ Billy Bibbit. Slitting his own throat after the Christmas party, triggered by Nurse Ratched's unyielding threat to tell Billy's mother about his night with a prostitute that McMurphy sneaks into the institution.

It was easy to view his actions as extreme, the almost instantaneous decision he makes to end his own life. But Simon hadn't felt much of anything when Billy was discovered dead, a bloody lifeless heap in the doctor's office. He'd found it a predictable turn of events, and if anything, was in ways _ _envious__ of Billy's position to follow through on his tendencies.

"Answer me, Fool Bright. Yes or no. McMurphy's commitment to his __cause__... Did it save Billy Bibbit?"

Finally, Fool Bright spoke, quiet but steady. "It's not a 'yes or no' kind of question, Sir."

"Only because you fail to see it that way. No, it did not. Some people can not be saved..." The need for Simon to get his point across was far greater than whatever discomfort it might cause Fool Bright.

"Maybe that's true, Sir." A startling statement from the ever-upbeat Fool Bright. Then again, he had seen his fair share of criminals throughout the years, hadn't he? "But there's no way of knowing unless someone __tries__ to save them. Help them. I think the movie showed that pretty well."

It was second nature for Simon to try and get the last word in, but this time he turned his attention to the blurring scenery outside the window.

He'd made it glaringly obvious that his attitude towards the movie, towards McMurphy and Billy, were all just projections of his own self-loathing and utter disappointment in himself.

So then, was Fool Bright disclosing his intentions via his assessment? Fool Bright was so dedicated to his job, to his status as a detective, Simon couldn't reconcile this notion that there was a sort of __personal__ involvement behind it. He was so stupidly optimistic about life, about the world as a whole, that his view of McMurphy's character hardly shocked Simon – but at the same time, it did, in the sense of how deeply thoughtful it'd all been.

But there was something else bothering Simon about Fool Bright today, more than just the annoyance caused by his general presence. This day, in and of itself, was bothersome because of its existence. Simon had been roped into this morning, and now afternoon, for no real reason but for one that Fool Bright wouldn't admit to, since it had nothing to do with Simon at all.

Simon began his siege with a lazy, almost amateur tactic, but one that was tried and true. The question with no pretense or context.

"What did you make of McMurphy's effort to have the baseball game aired?" A major plot point of the movie, the scene where Mac felt it important for the other patients to watch the World Series, which did not adhere to the schedule that had been strictly enforced for years, highlighted the growing conflict between Mac and Nurse Ratched.

"Even if he __wasn't__ doing it for the other guys – you've said you think he's selfish, Sir - I think what he said was true. That it could have proven a very valid form of therapy. Giving them a sort of escape, a chance to band together for a few hours and feel... like there's something to root for in life. Sometimes that's more important than figuring it all out..." Fool Bright trailed off, guiding the cruiser onto what Simon knew was the back way to the prison. A residential area, more scenic than the strip of highway many likely traveled.

"I see." The time had come. He'd successfully maneuvered into what had been irritating him all day, nagging at him like an unreachable itch. "The idea that such mindless entertainment can be just as, if not more, beneficial to the psyche as any session with a licensed professional. Much like you bringing me to the movies today, am I correct?"

"Well, I don't know, Sir. You'd have to ask yourself that, if it was helpful. If it was, I'd certainly like to know, and I can see what else I could - "

Simon straightened, leaning forward slightly, as though someone may eavesdrop upon their conversation. "I'm not asking myself, Fool Bright. I am asking __you__."

The shining amber sunglass lenses made his eyes unreadable, but Simon could see the confusion there as Fool Bright's brows crinkled together. "I'm not sure I understand the question, then."

"Do you really think me as dull as the knife with which I attempted to fillet you with? You yourself confirmed that this day had nothing to do with _ _me__ , and now you infer you haven't any recollection of such statement?"

"I did tell you, Sir, that the theatre is important to me. I mean, there's so few independent businesses anymore. It's up to us to support the little guy, the underdog!"

"Stop acting in this manner, Fool Bright. I would say you are becoming tiresome, but that's long passed."

"I'm not __acting__ any way." And there it was again, the flatness in Fool Bright's tone. The detachment from his effervescent personality.

"You try my patience!" Simon slouched down, bringing a booted foot up and jamming it harshly against the back of Fool Bright's seat. "You've no clearance to conceal your motives, yet involve me so heavily in them! To think; I'd come to consider you worthy of your badge, when it's been laid bare you're but a caitiff who merely fancies himself a noble warrior. A coward in disguise."

"It's not your business, Sir!" Fool Bright lifted a hand from the steering wheel, gesticulating avidly as he ranted on. "Do I ask you about what you and Ms. Blackquill talk about when she visits?! No, I don't, because I don't need to know, because that's your personal life. I'd like to think I could grant you the courtesy of __having__ one, even a sort of... watered-down version of it. So I don't feel it's too much to ask if you could show me the same decency!"

At last, he'd struck a nerve. Why did he not feel as triumphant as he objectively should? Why was it so __depressing__ to observe Fool Bright in such a state?

And what's more, why did Simon feel so inclined that __he__ should be the one to do anything about it? After having been so ambivalent towards Fool Bright, just hours ago, it was as if the movie and subsequent conversation regarding it altered something between them.

"First of all, I can tell you that all Aura and I speak about... it's less me saying anything and more her raving at me in increasingly coarse language, suggesting I, the guards, any lawyers she passes - the legal system as a whole, really- all go fornicate with ourselves. Second, I..." He hesitated, unsure if Fool Bright would be receptive after the whole day being subjected to nothing but Simon's sardonic quips and childish antics. "Your behavior is of concern to me, professionally. I would have reservations about continuing to partner with you if you are intent on letting your troubles fester inside you, driving you to such a state of heightened emotion – and for you, Fool Bright, that is quite the accomplishment."

"It's not for you to be concerned __about__ ," Fool Bright replied simply.

Simon sighed heavily. "And you are not permitted to make such a decision. Pull the car over into the nearest lot. We will discuss this posthaste."

"There's nothing to __discuss__ , I told you that already." Was that a crack in Fool Bright's voice? Simon couldn't be sure, having nothing to compare it to. "Hey, how about I see if I can find a copy of the novel, and bring it to you next time. Does that sound nice?"

"It does not. Stop being so __damned pleasant__ about everything, Fool Bright! I __will__ report you, and see that you are reassigned; I've no time for officers who place themselves, their own foolish pride, before the pursuit of justice."

Again, his skepticism of Fool Bright's honor was the ideal weapon with which to confront him. Fool Bright eased the cruiser across the intersection and turned halfway down the next block into the lot of a daycare center, empty due to it being the weekend.

Once parked, Fool Bright unbuckled his seat belt and turned in the driver's seat, that he could speak to Simon face-to-face. For as agitated as he'd been, he was remarkably calm as he began his explanation. "Remember how I told you I've been going to that theatre ever since I was a kid? How they have all kind of movies all year round?"

Simon swallowed, giving a short nod for Fool Bright to continue. "Yes."

"Well, two weeks ago, they screened __Viva Las Vegas__. Do you know that movie, Sir? It's probably Elvis's most famous movie."

"I... I've heard of it, but I've not seen it. I presume the general plot of it centers around the fundamentals of the rock and roll lifestyle: attractive women, fast cars, etcetera."

"Yeah...!" Finally, a laugh from Fool Bright, one that petered off far too quickly. "It's my grandma's favorite movie. She loves all the Elvis movies, but that one is her absolute favorite."

"Mm." Simon now had a hunch as to where this could be leading, and though he considered himself unfazeable at this point, a part of him did not want to pry any deeper. "I didn't know you had a grandmother, Fool Bright."

"Everyone has a grandmother, Sir! You do too."

Simon now recognized Fool Bright's common deflection tactic for what it was. This willful __ignorance__ , all dressed up with a cheerful laugh that only sold his performance all the more convincingly. It was easy to not have to share yourself, if you could make others believe you didn't know what you were talking about. "You know what I meant. Tell me about __yours__ , Fool Bright. She likes Elvis – what else?"

Averting his gaze, a stripe of light reflected from Fool Bright's sunglasses. "...You'll just call me a sentimental idiot, Sir."

"I will call you that anyway. Now, elaborate."

"How...? What am I supposed to say, I-"

An exasperated huff. "Just... __describe__ her, in ways that I might be able to picture her in my mind as something other than you in a blue wig and doddery old housecoat."

"Gosh, I don't know." Fool Bright tilted his head, apparently in thought. "Let's see. She has this little tattoo of a genie lamp on her ankle because that's her name: Jeannie. And she bakes a mean veggie lasagna. Oh, and she once threatened to divorce my grandpa because he placed better than her at a Bingo tournament."

Simon couldn't help but chuckle. "There you are. I can envision her better already. Anything else of note?"

"Yeah. She's my best friend in the world. I guess, if I think about it, she's my __only__ friend. A real one, anyway. I get along with... well, just about everyone, but she's really the only person I've ever been able to actually __talk__ about things with. Just like -" Fool Bright spoke it at the same time the realization hit Simon, a damaging blow. "-I'm talking with you right now."

Simon didn't like the strange sensation kindling deep in his chest. A fluttering, weak and aimless, like a baby bird learning to fly. "I see. And so, I am assuming based on this relationship you have with her, that you brought her to see that Elvis movie the other week?"

"Yeah. I try to take her out every week to do something, just me and her. Like dinner, or maybe just to walk around and shop a little at the mall, or the movies. Grandpa passed away several years ago and ever since then, I'm all she has left. She's all __I__ have left. So I really __try__ , you know?"

"I don't doubt that for one moment." Simon was curious as to where the middle generation of Fulbrights fit into this equation, but he knew better than to ask. It was likely a topic to be avoided, much like Simon probably was when his parents were asked about their children. "If there's one thing that can be said about you, Fool Bright, it is that you certainly __try__ , however futile the goal for which you're trying for."

Silence.

"But that is not to say that _ _this__ endeavor of yours is anything of the sort. I find it rather commendable, in fact. Did you... enjoy yourselves at this movie?"

More silence, and just as Simon was about to snap at Fool Bright, demand his cooperation...

"I don't know."

"You don't __know__? That is impossible."

"No, Sir, I mean..." Fool Bright gingerly removed his sunglasses, revealing reddened eyes that were blinking back tears. "I don't __know__ if she enjoyed herself. That's the problem; I don't think she knows either."

It was as if stone had dropped straight through Simon, this crushing heaviness suddenly overtaking him. "You're saying...?"

Except he knew exactly what Fool Bright was saying. Fool Bright, however, went on to detail it anyway.

He'd thought nothing of it when his grandmother – Gram, he called her – didn't seem particularly excited about going to watch the movie; after all, she'd already seen it close to a hundred times. But once the movie started and she wasn't engaged the way she so often was, quoting, singing along and swooning over her beloved rock idol, Fool Bright had grown uneasy. Worried. Almost panicked.

"...and then when I was taking her back, I asked her if she was happy that we went to see it. To see Elvis. You know, since she was so... quiet about it the whole time. I didn't know if something else was bothering her, but I've never known __anything__ to get between her and Elvis."

"And...?" Simon prompted.

Fool Bright rubbed under his eyes; Simon was impressed and relieved he'd been able to keep his composure. "She said to me, 'Oh, that's his name? Does he have any other movies coming out soon, he's such a handsome devil!' I used to think it wasn't... wasn't anything big. Like sometimes she would forget where she put the mail, or she wouldn't remember when I planned to come over and pick her up. Little things."

"Not Elvis."

"Not Elvis," Fool Bright confirmed, head bowed while clasping his folded sunglasses "I don't know what to do, Sir. Like I said, she's all I have. I can't lose her, not now. Not like __this__."

This was – there was no other way to truly describe it – __sad__. It also provided Simon with a solid explanation as to why he accompanied Fool Bright to the theatre this afternoon. Undoubtedly, Fool Bright would have attended with his grandmother under more favorable circumstances. Would have worked twice as diligently on his own to clean the theatre spotless, if it meant bringing her.

"Have you... visited her since this occurrence?"

A shake of the head.

"And whyever not? While her acuity may be fading, I can hardly conceive that she has completely forgotten __you__ , Fool Bright. You are not the sort of person one can easily erase from their memories – unfortunately for me, might I add. I'm sure, for reasons that defy logic, she misses your company."

That drew a crooked smile from Fool Bright. "I... I don't know, Sir. You're right, I am a coward for not being there for her, but I'm not __abandoning__ her, I promise. I just don't know what to do, or if it'll even matter at this point. I need to figure it out. I keep thinking if I do things the same way as when... __before__ , that maybe it'll enlighten me somehow."

"Such as the movie."

"Yeah... it's stupid, isn't it? But I don't know how I'd... come off around her. I don't wanna be stressed out, a downer, or any of that. She needs me to be as strong as possible for her and I can't do that until I've decided how to go about this. I just... haven't come up with much yet, or been able to even ask anyone else's opinion – there's no one I really feel comfortable telling." The __except you__ , at this point, was heavily implied, even more punctuated by Fool Bright's eyes meeting Simon's for a brief moment. "Like I said, whenever I face any injustices in life, I talk to her about it. And now... when it's __her__ that's the one who is suffering from injustice, I just don't know. "

If Simon Blackquill's ever-diminishing life were a screenplay, this would be the plot twist. The big reveal, as it were, much like when Mac discovered that the Chief was not deaf and dumb after all, and their friendship had burgeoned even more.

So here was the twist, when the Twisted Samurai thought his pitiful existence couldn't be twisted even more: that Bobby Fulbright affected him quite powerfully when he was not addressing Simon as his charge, his rehabilitation project, but as an ally. A confidant.

Simon let out a resigned sigh, not breaking his gaze from Fool Bright's. "I haven't the slightest idea of what to tell you, other than the truth. The fact of the matter is, you will lose her one day. Physically. Time stops for no man; there are no preventative measures that can be taken against it."

He expected Fool Bright to recoil at such a hard truth, to protest or even burst into tears. All he received was a slow, solemn nod and a quiet acknowledgment of "I know, Sir."

"Mm, you say you do, and yet you confess to doing nothing but dithering about and allowing your worries to imprison you. Your excuse of hoping to be struck with an epiphany as how to, shall I say, __solve__ this predicament is but that. An excuse."

"I need to __do__ something, though. I can't just... be there, all unsure and helpless and..." Fool Bright's expression became more determined. "That's not justice!"

"Oh, sod off about justice, Fool Bright!" Simon snapped, earning a visible flinch from Fool Bright. He cleared his throat, and made the conscious effort to reign in his annoyance. "Your grandmother surely does not require justice in this situation. I don't see why you don't simply do what you always do elsewhere. Charge valiantly ahead, and face this obstacle with the bleeding compassion and patience as you insist on utilizing in your assignment with me. Why is that not an option?"

"It doesn't..." Fool Bright's answer was muddled with all his conflicting emotions. "It won't change anything, or fix anything, or..."

"No, it will not. But you can not 'fix' this, not to your liking. So accept it. Cherish the time you __do__ have remaining with her instead of waxing on how you could extend it. Choosing to do the latter only creates greater distress, for both yourself and your grandmother. I would hate for her to suffer any more, considering all the nonsense she's already endured with you as her grandson."

Simon couldn't guess as to all the thoughts jostling around within Fool Bright's head in the moment that followed, but whatever they were resulted in a relieved smile spreading across his face. The hopefulness that had briefly fled his eyes returned with keen determination, which in turn triggered a slight lift in Simon's own lips.

"Thank you, Sir. I really -"

"Silence. If you insist on continuing this session, I will have to begin charging you for it."

With a short laugh, Fool Bright turned back to start the ignition. "You're right, Sir. Let's get you back."

Of course Simon was right. As he'd been about everything they'd discussed during the car ride. But he didn't affirm as much with Fool Bright, only slid back in his seat and closed his eyes for the remainder of the journey.

And yet, the soft flickers ebbing up and down, back and forth inside his middle carried a far greater sense of pleasure than the pride that came with simply being __right__.

* * *

"Wait here." Fool Bright grinned at Simon after depositing him in his cell and liberating him from the handcuffs.

"What the bloody hell else would I do?"

Fool Bright laughed, closing and locking the barred door of Simon's cell. He hurried off, only to return a couple minutes later with the same wide smile.

"Here, it's all they had in the kit at the front desk." He unlocked the cell again, slipping in to show Simon what he'd brought back in his hoodie. A square band-aid and a tube of A&D ointment. "For your wrist, Sir."

Typically any injuries to inmates, even minor ones, were tended to in the medical wing. It was unheard of for an officer or warden to personally apply any sort of treatment. But here Fool Bright was, peeling the band-aid from its wrapper and beckoning Simon to extend his arm.

Simon obeyed, but did not hide his consternation. "You needn't do this."

Fool Bright squeezed a blob of ointment onto Simon's wrist, then carefully covered the scarlet abrasion with the band-aid. For the first time, Simon realized Fool Bright hadn't been and currently __wasn't__ wearing his pristine white gloves. The contact between them right now was skin-on-skin.

Simon's black stare was met with an off-kilter smile from Fool Bright. "If I take you to the medical wing, I'll have to file the paperwork documenting how you incurred the injury."

Fool Bright paused to press the edges of the bandage down, causing Simon to tense even further. Simon couldn't understand what suddenly unfurled within him, the simultaneous desire to shove Fool Bright off but also to clamp his hand down, keep it and its gentle warmth there.

"And I don't believe it's necessary. I just let my emotions get the better of me, and you were out of line..." He glanced at Simon, who could only study him, bemused. "But I should've been more mindful."

"You did your job, Fool Bright." Finally, Simon ripped his hand away and rubbed at his bandaged wrist. "I applaud you, for your quick and appropriate actions in subduing an unruly inmate. You were defending yourself and possibly others against a deranged murderer."

"I don't think so, Sir. That's what I'm trying to say, is that I know you wouldn't __really__ try to kill me and escape."

"You know nothing. Why, did we not just establish that over the course of today?"

As he often infuriatingly did, Fool Bright did not answer Simon's question. He just kept that slappy smile of his pinned up. "Thanks again, for... you know, listening to me. And... trying to help me out."

Simon rolled his eyes. "It is nothing to thank me for. You, of course, could not solve your own tribulations and reached out to someone with keen insight and an intellect surpassing that of anyone else you may know. It was inevitable. I just hope my advice does not go unheeded – I __have__ trained Taka to peck out the eyes of any who might see fit to disrespect me. Your aviators would stand no chance."

"I'll keep that in mind, Sir." As if on cue, Fool Bright plucked his sunglasses from where they'd been hooked in his shirt collar, and slid them on. "Now, I'll be taking my leave. I have other places to be tonight. And every Sunday."

"Agreed. I never want to see you again on Sundays."

"Only on Sundays, Sir?" Another bright laugh, and a hand pressed to his heart for emphasis. "I'm so honored."

"Oh, bugger off already."

Fool Bright kept laughing – Simon swore there must have been some kind of mechanism inside him, to keep him so perpetually amused and so damned __loud__ about it.

He exited the cell, locking the door a final time. It was as he turned his back that a sudden, gravely important question came racing from Simon's mind to his lips.

"Fool Bright?" His voice had shrunk, uncharacteristically amenable. "When... when __will__ I be seeing you next?"

"Does that... __matter__ , Sir?"

And Simon realized it too: he'd never asked for that information, because what did it matter when Fool Bright would wander by again?

"...Absolutely not! I just meant, because you mentioned you would bring me a copy of the novel, of __One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest__. I was anticipating being able to read it sooner than later, is all. I haven't the luxury of time, Fool Bright."

Before Fool Bright could answer, the heavy steps of the approaching warden interceded. Simon made certain to hide his wrist, not that he really believed this young warden would be perceptive enough to notice with a passing glance.

"Come on, Detective Fulbright," the man Simon recognized as Warden Locke urged. "I can cover it from here."

"You got it, Keian. Prosecutor Blackquill's had a long day, so I'm just going over a couple things with him. I don't want him to give you any trouble tonight! Give me just one second, alright?"

Fool Bright addressing the wardens by their given names? Unbelievable. And yet... this was Fool Bright. So no, not necessarily.

"And I need to be given only one second as well... to disembowel any callow new recruits who might think it prudent to interrupt us." Simon smiled dangerously at Warden Locke, who visibly gulped and shuffled away to his desk in the far corner, entirely out of earshot.

Fool Bright carried on their conversation as if Simon hadn't just threatened to eviscerate a fellow member of law enforcement.

"Anyway... Thursday, Sir. I'll bring the book Thursday."

There was what was surely meant to be a reassuring pat on Simon's upper arm through the bars, and then Fool Bright departed, his footsteps echoing through this cavernous portion of the prison.

Four days from today. Why did that seem so far off, especially when time had become a concept almost entirely lost on Simon over the past six years?

Simon hung his head, grazing his fingers along the bandage. He'd have to remove it by tomorrow, to curtail suspicion from the weekday warden.

"I'll get a copy for myself too!" Fool Bright's cheerful voice called from across the wing, yards away. Simon blinked, lifting his head to see Fool Bright walking backwards, beaming an enthusiastic grin. At waist level, his hands were curled in tight fists, flashing a dual thumbs-up. "We can read it together. You and me, Sir!"

At first, this baffled Simon. Fool Bright, who endlessly distributed salute after salute and his trust in justice to one and all, was giving him the juvenile gesture of a thumbs-up.

But then, he realized, it was not Fool Bright's gesture. No, it was the same gesture that McMurphy had given the Chief when the two first discussed the possibility of escaping to Canada together. The same words too.

 _ _"You and me, Chief."__

Leave it to Fool Bright to reenact such frivolousness from a movie that had so many other complex layers to it. To draw from fiction in the first place. Incapable of forming his own thoughts and actions, he adopted ones from the movie and its cast, recycling them as if he himself meant it.

However, Simon wouldn't have been surprised if he __did__ mean it.

As for __why__ he would have meant it, Simon couldn't say. It was something he would have to uncover on his own, and perhaps since the first time he'd been introduced to Detective Bobby Fulbright, he was quite interested in the prospect of doing so.

As it stood now, all he could surmise was that Fool Bright really was, as he'd readily admitted today, a sentimental idiot.

And Simon was looking forward to informing him of that come Thursday.


End file.
